The Unforgetable Christmas: All 12 Days of It
by The Mad Squirrel
Summary: I've often wondered what a Christmas party would be like with the Sherlock lot. So I've written one myself. A party at each of the characters houses starting with Mycroft. OC character for fun! They're going to be rather long and completely disproportionate to the usual 12 hours of night. But all I'll say is, "Christmas with Sherlock? Heaven help us, everyone!"
1. Christmas Invite: Mycroft's Gone Insane

**Hello, every one! I'm writing this out of sheer boredom, if it gets any worse I'll have to go steal my neighbors paint ball gun and re-re-re-repaint my dorm-room. It wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, this is just something odd I thought up as I twirled about in a daze. "What would Christmas be like with the Sherlock guys?" quickly followed by a shudder and, "_Christ…_"**

**This story includes a new character (Idden Skyborne Holmes)(not related to Sherlock, she just changed it herself) who was created by moi, based upon myself. She is a main-role character in another Sher-fic I'm writing, but that one hasn't been posted. I think you will find she is witty, kind, funny, smart, and in need of a nice boy who will care about her safety. Like I said, she is based off _me_… (hint, hint)**

"Morning all," Idden said cheerfully as she staggered out of her bedroom.

Sherlock mm-ed in her general direction, but John smiled at her and handed her a cup of tea, saying, "Morn'n,"

She took a gulp of the steaming tea, and sighed happily, just enjoying the blissful sensation of boiling British tea in her stomach at four in the morning. Nothing better. Idden set the cup down on the counter, then strolled towards the door, her silk pants legs making a soft noise as they brushed against each other. "I'm just going to get the mail," she said to no-body in particular.

The door shut behind her and Sherlock looked up suddenly, starring at it. "Who's arrived?" he asked John, craning his neck to see him in the kitchen without actually moving his body.

John looked at him oddly. "Sherlock, that was Idden leaving."

"Leaving? Leaving where, where's she going?"

"I was leaving to get the mail," said Idden as she walked back in, kicking the door shut behind her as she flipped through a pile of letters. "And what do you know; we actually have some this time!"

"Not more bills," groaned John.

"'Fraid so," Idden said, fingers trailing across the letters. "Bill…bill…bill…" she said slowly, looking at each one in turn then throwing it like a Frisbee across the room so that it landed on Sherlock's shoulder, lodged in a bullet hole between the eyes of the abused smiley face, and in John's coffee. "Sorry, John."

Sherlock twisted his head so that he was staring at the coffee cup. John walked over and fished out the bill, dripping and sopping in coffee. "It's alright, I'll get another cup."

"Bill," Idden continued, sending another letter flying (this one landed on a Bunsen burner.) John and Idden simultaneously lunged at it; John got there first and snatched it up. (The burner wasn't on, of course, but with Sherlock….)

Crisis averted, Idden finished off the pile of mail. "Bill," _flick_ (lamp shade), "bill," _flick_ (Sherlock's forehead), "bill," _fli-_ "Hang on." John poked his head out of the kitchen and Sherlock cautiously came up from behind the sofa where he had taken cover. Idden was starring at the last letter, a look of amusement mixed with amazement. Quite an interesting expression.

"What's wrong?" John asked and came out of the kitchen and peered over her shoulder. He paled.

"What?" Sherlock said impatiently. John and Idden looked up at him slowly. Wordlessly, Idden handed him the letter. Sherlock yanked it out of her hands and scanned it. His eyes widened. "No…"

Idden's face was red with contained laughter. "Yes," she grinned, "Mycroft's invited us to a Christmas party."

**Great God Mycroft, what are you thinking? Have you finally snapped? Has all the pressure of the high-standing government official's life driven you around the bend at last? More importantly; HOW WILL WE TELL?**

**Please review, because reading them almost makes up for the fact that, unlike Idden, I have no life. But that could easily be remedied by a kind hearted boy…**


	2. The Horrible Crime of Brolly Snatching

**Hello! I just had to write more tonight, I couldn't leave it. So, here I's be, typing little nothings to people who don't even bother with this part and just skip straight ahead to the story. Typical. **

Sherlock, John, and Idden sat in different pieces of furniture around the living room in varying degrees of shock. Sherlock looked like he might have a heart attack, John's eyes had glazed over, and Idden simply looked mildly bemused. Several moments passes, then Idden got up and walked to the kitchen. She began clattering pots and cups and silver wear, preparing breakfast. (Ever since Idden had moved in across the hall, she always made breakfast for all in their flat. The kitchen was her domain. No exceptions.) Her voice came from out of the freezer, "That's certainly interesting, isn't it? Mycroft's invite, I mean."

John made an agreeing noise, but Sherlock stayed silent. Idden continued, "And why did he send it by mail? Why not just text you? We never get mail."

John said, "Maybe he knows that you check every morning."

Idden came out of the kitchen and set three mugs of tea on the coffee table. She pushed one insistently towards Sherlock then drifted back to the kitchen. She said thoughtfully, "Yeah, maybe. He has got this place bugged after all…"

"Yes, why do you that?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Idden popped back around the corner. "What? Bug the flat? That was Mycroft, not me!"

"No, check for mail." Sherlock explained, as if she were an idiot. "You do it every morning and you just said yourself that we rarely have mail."

"Oh," she called, stirring some eggs around the frying pan. "I'm fleeing your violin."

Sherlock frowned, brows furrowing. "But you've said on many occasions how much you like my playing."

"Yes, Sherlock, but not at three in the barking morning!"

John snorted and Sherlock glared at him. Idden just laughed and put down a plate of scrambled egg and toast in front of both, then settled down on the sofa with her own and started eating.

"So," John intoned, "Are we going?"

They both look expectantly at Sherlock, and he stared placidly back. "You realize," he responded, "that my brother and I are not currently on speaking terms."

Idden slumped back and sighed, "Oh, come on! That was three months ago, and he only disabled your phone as revenge for paying off his driver to repeatedly take him to a night club! And it looks like he's trying to be nice. Which, let's face it, is a rare opportunity in itself, and should be taken advantage of accordingly."

John nodded, "Yeah, it does look like he's trying to make it up to you."

Sherlock groaned. "Fine! We'll go!"

John and Idden's faces went from shock to worry to suspicion. They stared at Sherlock through narrowed eyes as though waiting for him to spontaneously combust.

The Consulting Detective noticed their expressions and asked, "What?"

"What are you going to do?" Idden asked distrustfully.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked through a look of innocence.

"You agreed instantly without arguing, what are you planning, Sherlock?" John asked sternly. "Also, you're giving us the innocent look."

"And that's never good," Idden added.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock sniffed, "I was simply saying that I might attempt to enjoy my brother's company on Christmas."

John and Idden now looked positively alarmed.

"Alright," Sherlock deflated a bit, "I was planning on stealing his umbrella."

Silence.

Sherlock looked at them appraisingly. They both appeared thunderstruck at the thought of anyone stealing Mycroft Holmes's umbrella.

"Sherlock," John spoke slowly. "Have you gone mad?"

Sherlock regarded him and answered, "No, I haven't. That was my plan."

Idden jumped up. "That's completely crazy!" she cried, "No-one touches Mycroft's umbrella! It's like, the deleted 11th commandment; TOUCH-ITH NOT THE BROLY OF MYCROFT HOLMES, FOR IF THOU DOST THOU SHALT BE BURNT IN HELL BY THE HIGH STANDING GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL-ITH, WHO DOST NOT LIKE-ITH YOU!"

Sherlock looked up at her, then at John, "And you think I'm the crazy one."

Idden dropped back onto the sofa. "All I'm saying is that you should pick something a bit more low key. If Myc's umbrella goes missing, it could be considered a national incident."

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed.

John looked down at the invitation. "Well, the party is in two days, so that's plenty of time for us to get ready and for you to figure out a new plan."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "You mean I can't steal his umbrella?"

"NO!"

**Hahahahaha! I love Mycroft's brolly. I think it's secretly a whacking stick. For keeping the unruly protesters and Sherlock at arm's length. Well, more will be coming, so sit tight! Sorry nothing happened this time, but don't worry, it'll get more exciting!**

**Does brolly have one "L" or two?**


	3. Wine for Sherlock & not the 16 Year Old?

**HEY, HEY, HEY, HEEEEEEEEERE'S JOHNNY! (Not John Watson, it's from an old TV show.) Here it is, part 3. I'm really excited for this part, because this is the part where it gets…er…exciting!**

(Two days later)

(8:oo pm)

"Holy crap," Idden gasped as she opened the door of the black car Mycroft had sent for them. The car was long and sleek, and a bit too luxurious to be a limo.

John didn't say anything as he got out. Just stared at the enormous mansion before him. He had never actually seen the Holmes Estate. But even so, he was sure it couldn't compare to Mycroft's home. It was massive, with snowy, stately lawns stretching off into the distance, splattered with frosty trees hung with lights (that must have been Anthea's touch, John reflected, Mycroft would never do 'Christmas lights')

Sherlock was unimpressed. It was huge, it was fancy, it was serene…it was dull and ridiculously showy and useless. He much preferred the flat. He pulled some imaginary wrinkles out of his suit jacket and strolled forward. It was the same suit he always wore, despite John and Idden's coaxing, he would not dress up for a simple party.

John walked slowly after him, still absorbing the grandeur of the mansion. He had borrowed a suit from one of Sherlock's tailor friends, and it fit quite well, but it was simple, not fancy, and suddenly he felt horribly under-dressed.

Idden staggered out of the car, swearing under her breath. Of the three of them, she had really risen to the occasion. Her tank-top dress was deep cerulean blue, tighter around the upper torso, then swirling out in folds that split apart on either side up to the mid-thighs. White sleeve-lets were attached to the shoulders, and hung down gracefully almost to her elbows. The only problem with her ensemble was her shoes. They were tight, soft slippers made out of blue velvet, and, according to Idden; they were way too delicate for her. She had tried to slip out in her sneakers, but John had caught her. They looked very nice, but Idden was still used to having more between her and the ground.

John offered her his arm, and she took it, chuckling a little. Together they strolled up the drive way and admired the scenery. As they did, another car pulled up behind them, and, turning, they saw Molly get out. She looked amazing.

Molly's dress was low-cut and black, with silver thread embroidering the hems at the neck-line and at the bottom. The straps were narrow, with thin strips of gold and silver running up the middle. Her hair was styled up at the front, and fell loose at the back, and was decorated by a Christmas bow. Her earrings glittered in the glow from the tree lights.

Her lip-stick was deep crimson, and her make-up was flawless.

"Holy crap," Idden said again, staring in awe at Molly.

Molly shifted awkwardly and smiled a bit. "You look nice, Idden,"

"You look better," Idden said flatly, still gazing at Molly. "You are definitely going to be popular tonight."

Molly laughed and Idden linked her arm in, and all three of them walked the last few yards and up the stairs to Mycroft's home.

* * *

As it turned out, the 'party' consisted of only five people. Seven, if you count Mycroft and Anthea. Clearly Mycroft wasn't going to have a herd of people in his house just because of a major holiday. God forbid _that_ from happening. The guest list was; Sherlock, John, Idden (of course) but also included Molly and Greg Lestrade. The five of them sat chatting in a large sitting room that suddenly changed into a ball room if you looked too far to the left. The sitting area was complete with squishy armchairs, a roaring fire, and an oriental rug. The room was pleasantly warm, and the conversation was good.

The door swung open, and Mycroft (followed by Anthea, as ever) strolled in. He sat down in a chair and joined in the conversation. Everyone was a bit startled, because Mycroft was not (shock!) a raging conversationalist, but soon he was deeply discussing the latest crime with Lestrade and Sherlock, Anthea had amazingly put her phone away and was fixing John's tie, and Idden and Molly were sitting across from each other next to the fire, talking about fashion.

"What do you mean, 'I've got it laced wrong'" Idden asked, turning her head as she tried to see the laces up the back of her dress.

"I noticed as we came in," Molly said calmly, "It's nothing to worry about, you just missed a hole."

"_Sherlock_ missed a hole," Idden corrected, "he laced it up."

"I could fix it for you," Molly offered, and Idden scooted forward and turned around so that her back was to Molly. Molly undid the knot, and pulled the laces out. Then she rethreaded them correctly through the holes.

* * *

"But you've got it on crooked," Anthea remonstrated, as she unlooped John's tie.

"It-it's fine," John reassured, and tried gently to push her hands away.

"No, it's not!" Anthea laughed as she dodged John's hands and fixed the tie to her liking. "There."

"Have you got any holiday plans?" John asked suddenly.

"No, but there are a few more parties we might be attending."

"We? Er, you and Mycroft, you mean?"

"Yes, I have to go everywhere with him," Anthea sighed. "I would like to throw a party for just me, and invite my friends to it, but I can't get off."

"Why?"

"For some reason every single politician simply has to center all the important stuff during Christmas. And as Mycroft's PA, I have to go with him to mark down the important things, and draw up his schedule."

"You could just mention that you'd like some free time on Christmas," John suggested.

"Maybe…"

* * *

"NO, NO!" Sherlock yelled, swaying on his perch on the armrest of one of the chairs. "It was obviously the wife; the flour on her apron was white, not grey!"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said tiredly from the depths of the armchair, "The brother had the foil hat on his left knee, not his right."

"That doesn't matter! We already knew he was left handed from the clock! The wife was right handed and she had blue paint on her back."

"But what did the plaster have to do with anything?" Lestrade asked, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. He was very confused.

The brothers sighed, and began explaining that the plaster wasn't important at all; it was the shoe brush that should be the topic.

* * *

It continued like this for nearly half an hour, when it was suddenly interrupted by one of Mycroft's many servants coming in through the door. He announced in a rather squeaky voice, "Dinner is served,"

As he finished speaking, a literal parade of servants and maids came through the door, the first few were carrying wooden tables between two of them, but the rest were laden with platters and plates of food. Cakes, salads, bowl of punch, juice, cookies, biscuits, and on and on and on. Finally, the parade was finished off by three men each with a large bottle of wine. The date on the bottles read nothing later than 1724.

"God almighty!" cried Idden, leaping to her feet. "How many guests were these guys expecting?"

"Only us seven, I assure you," Mycroft said.

"Yeah, right. Us seven and how many thousand rampaging starving people and their cousins?" Idden muttered. Molly pulled her back down and kept pulling at a knot in the lace.

John stared at the food. He had never seen so much in one place other than the super-market. "Does he always put on a spread like this for parties?" he asked Anthea.

Anthea rolled her eyes. "God yes. Mycroft doesn't know what 'budgeting' is when it comes to food."

Mycroft looked up sharply. "What was that?" he growled.

His PA waved a comforting hand in his direction. "Nothing, nothing…" then with her boss sated she whispered to John, "He's always on alert for any rumors concerning his weight. He's actually quite paranoid about it."

"Well…" Lestrade said, "Let's not waste it." And so saying, he took a cookie in the shape of a Christmas tree, and took a bite. "Ohmygosh," he moaned. "So…goooood. Must get more."

Mycroft chuckled at the zombie-like DI. "Well, help yourselves. As our young friend," he raised an eyebrow at Idden, "pointed out, there is more than enough to go around."

Idden snorted. "Enough for us and a hungry My-" she stopped when Mycroft sent her a furious glare. Hurriedly changed course, she said, "My-…um…mymmoth."

Mycroft stared her down. "Mymmoth?"

"Um…a cross between a…a…wooly mammoth and a mastodon?" she guessed weakly.

Mycroft rumbled something under his breath and turned his glare on his brother, who was rolling on the chair, laughing helplessly.

A hysterical Sherlock was so weird and so {unimaginably} unusual that everyone started smiling too.

John quickly strolled over to the table and hefted one of the complex wine bottles. "I propose a toast!" he shouted. "Everybody get over here and get yourself a glass."

Everyone scrambled up from their various positions and grabbed a wine glass. Idden looked at hers critically. "Do you actually drink out of these?" she asked incredulously. "These things are architectural and artistic lunacy."

John finished pouring into Lestrade's glass and gave her his sternest 'I-Use-This-Look-On-Sherlock,-It'll-Work-On-You-Too' look and said, "Put that back, you are not getting any of this."

Idden replied with her 'I-Use-This-Look-On-Sherlock-And-He-Actually-_NOTICES-_And_-OBEYS_:-You-Don't-Stand-A-Chance-In-Hell' look and argued, "Why not? It's _Christmas_, John. And I only want a little."

"Yeah, well, you can have a little in two Christmases when you're 18," said John.

Idden groaned, but put the artistic disaster (wine glass) back on the table, and snatched up a plate of cookies instead. She sat back down near the fire and crunched moodily, and then happily as the saintly goodness of the cookies washed away her lack of wine, which, she reasoned, would probably taste nasty anyways.

Once everyone had a glass full, John raised his and announced, "A toast! A Christmas toast to keep Mycroft from strangling Sherlock." Everyone laughed and cheered as Mycroft hurriedly spun his gaze away from Sherlock, guiltily playing with his glass.

**Sorry! Not to the exciting part yet! My bad! But anyways, the more reviews I get, the faster I update! Special thanks to New York Lovers, the ONLY person who commented (and probably the only person who read it in the first place). Oh well. See ya!**

**XOXO**

**-Mad Squirrel**


	4. What in HELL Have You Done This Time!

**Ollo! I am writing again! I will probably take two days on this one, but summer is distracting me. Thanks to NYC Lovers and N E Laurent for reviewing! I love you both with all my heart (figuratively, as my heart was recently swallowed by a vengeful water spirit. … I'm working on it. Don't judge me.)**

…

Lestrade, Sherlock, John, Anthea, and Mycroft downed their glasses of wine in one. Lestrade staggered backward from the force of the wine.

"Whoa…" he gasped.

Molly took a tentative sip of hers. "Oof!" she shook her head like she was trying to get rid of a fly. "That's strong!"

Sherlock teetered for a moment, then steadied himself. "Yes, it is," he agreed.

John doubled over, choking. Sherlock slapped him hard on the back until John stopped. "Christ…" John coughed, "Mycroft, what is _in_ this?"

Mycroft, of all of them, looked unaffected. Beside him, Anthea was coughing delicately, eyes watering. Mycroft poured himself another, and then looked at the label on the bottle. "It says… Turkish Wishing Star Night Blue Wine."

Sherlock frowned. "Blue wine?"

The eldest Holmes brother shrugged. "I have no idea."

Lestrade wobbled over. Apparently, the DI had no head for 'Turkish Wishing Star Night Blue(?) Wine', because he looked bleary. "Mycroft…could you pour me another?"

"Certainly."

As Mycroft lowered the neck of the bottle towards the DI's glass, Sherlock watched him closely, carefully noting all. _Hands steady, body steady , no slurring when speaking, eyes wandering, breathing and heart rate accelerated, less than 5% of regular common side effects of alcohol or drug use. Too small a dose? _

While Sherlock was mentally taking and filing notes, Molly put her glass back down with a pinched expression. She went back to Idden and resumed her job tying the laces. Idden offered her a cookie, and Molly took it gratefully.

Lestrade downed his glass in one. He didn't seem to mind that he was practically hyperventilating. He poured himself one more, without Mycroft's help. He set the bottle back with uncannily good accuracy for someone who had just had three glasses of…Blue(?) Wine. Mycroft noticed and frowned at Sherlock. Sherlock merely held out his empty glass and asked Mycroft to kindly pour me another, brother dear. With a refilled glass in hand he wandered off to the fire and leaned on the mantle. He took a swig, and as soon as no-one was looking (tricky, what with Molly and Idden sitting barely two feet away), he spit it into the fire. Instantly, the flames flared neon pink and nearly jumped out of the fireplace. Idden and Molly scrambled away, beating at stray sparks that had landed on their clothes. One of the sparks on Idden's white armlets started burning. She shrieked and whacked at it. It went out, but left some (rather attractive, Idden later thought) singes around the edges. Oddly enough, the singes, instead of the usual black or brown, were pink, which no-one would understand for quite a while.

Mycroft looked alarmed now. Anthea edged nervously away from them, sensing that this was only just the beginning. So, so, so very true.

**End for now, but look for the next chapter either in the next hour, or tomorrow. I love you all. Particularly those who review!**


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